


The Singed Birdling and the Hound

by Littlefeather



Series: The Family Clegane [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Daddy Sandor, Daddy!Sandor, F/M, Family, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, sansan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-03 13:11:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1070837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Littlefeather/pseuds/Littlefeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>bighound-littlebird Tumblr prompt submitted by queensansastark:</p><p>Sandor and Sansa’s future daughter manages to sneak out at night and into the kitchen where she burns her hand on the still hot stove. She is then found by Sandor who was also still wandering the keep and has to comfort his little daughter and explain that her burn is by far not as bad as his is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Singed Birdling and the Hound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [momolady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/momolady/gifts).



> Note: In my head canon, once post Quiet Isle Sandor Clegane gets over the initial awkwardness of new parenthood, he is determined to give his children the love he never had. Much to everyone's surprise, he is shamelessly affectionate with both his sons and daughters and dares anyone to tease him about it.
> 
> A special shout out to Wartcap, thank you! :D

Despite the end of winter, the relative peace brought by the joint reign of Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow and the destruction of the Others, Sandor Clegane could not sleep through the night. The soldier within forced him from Sansa’s arms each night, and he would not be made easy until he toured the keep himself, checking the locks on the windows and doors and surprising the Night Watchmen with inspections. Arya often joked it was the dog in him that made him go about his nightly patrols; Sandor often wondered if there might be some truth to her words. This night, however, duty called to him earlier than usual.

Panting, Sandor rolled off of Sansa and struggled to catch his breath. After kissing him tenderly, Sansa curled around him and rubbed her cheek against his chin. “After your vigorous workout in the training yard this afternoon, I did not think you would be quite so energetic, my love.”

Chuckling wickedly, he settled her in his arms. “Did you finish Catya’s lemoncakes for her fifth nameday celebration?”

“Yes, I made three dozen and in the morning I will frost them into one large nameday cake. Wiith all the baking and preparations, our oven will not cool before it is time for Hot Pie to prepare our breakfast.”

Sighing impatiently, Sandor grunted and wriggled beneath her.

“Please my love, go check on things if you must,” Sansa kissed his cheek and turned over with a yawn. “I do not mind. You know it is the only way you will get your rest tonight.”

At once Sandor was out of bed and strapping on his sword. “I won’t be long,” he muttered as he closed the door. Inexplicably he felt drawn to the kitchens and so hastily he made his way there first. A familiar voice wailed out a bloodcurdling shriek that sent a corresponding wound straight to Sandor’s heart. _Good gods,_ _Catya…._ Sandor raced toward the kitchen, a sickening dread gripping the man as he rounded the corner.

Cursing, he called for the servants to rouse the maester and abruptly pushed the Night Watchmen out of his way. Once inside,  Sandor saw his little girl in her sleeping gown with her beautiful red curls in disarray, slumped on the ground next to the hot oven and crying her eyes out. “Papa I burned my hand! Look!” She held up her right hand to him. “The oven is hot!”

A fear worse than any he had ever experienced in battle clutched his chest. Scarcely able to breathe, Sandor rushed to her side. “Show me, love. Where did you burn your hand?”

“Here,” she turned over her palm. “And here, too. It hurts awfully.”

“I know, sweet babe, I know,” Sandor picked up a basin and carried her outside under one arm.  Filling the container with snow, he then plunged her hand inside the ice cold contents. “Be a brave girl for me now and keep your hand in there,” he whispered soothingly as she howled anew.

Arya raced into the kitchen, half dressed, with Gendry hot on her heels. “What happened, my little wolf?”

At the appearance of her aunt and uncle, Catya sobbed harder as Sandor sat her down in front of the hearth. “She burned her hand on the oven.”

“What were you doing up and about so late? You should be dreaming of all the nameday gifts you will get tomorrow,” Arya needled her tummy.

“I wanted to see my nameday cake. Mama was busy all day with it.”

“Yes, and I kept you away because it is to be a surprise for you!” Arya tweaked her nose.

“I’ll make sure the servants bar the door to the kitchens from now on, Sandor,” Gendry murmured low.

Glaring, Sandor gave a short nod. “See that you do. If I find it otherwise, I’ll skin them alive.”

Arya was busy cooing over her, and in between sobs Catya did not hear her father’s words. Wrapping her in his cloak, Sandor then thrust his own hand into the basin. “Let us see who can keep their hand in the longest. It will be a game.”

“Should I awaken Sansa?” Arya whispered.

“No.” He jerked his head toward the alcove. "I'll take her to her mother after Sam looks at it." After kissing her niece, Arya and Gendry quietly went back upstairs.

“Al-alright, Papa. It will be a game but a hurting game.”

“We will only play it once. You are much braver than me, lass. I was older than you when I was burned, and I cried far more than you.”

“But Papa, it will look ugly,” Catya wailed, fresh tears streaking her ruddy cheeks. “Everyone will see. I won’t be a lady like Mama with such a scar. _You can always tell a lady by her hands,_ my septa says.”

“Does she now?” Sandor rasped menacingly, making a mental note to fire the old windbag come daylight. “Look at me, girl,” he brought his face close to hers, pointing at the twisted, marled flesh covering the left side of his face. “Do you think your Papa is ugly?”

For a moment Sandor held his breath, remembering what the wolf bitch once said to him. _I don’t like looking at your face. It’s all burned and ugly._

“Of course not, Papa!” Catya leaned in and kissed him soundly. “You are a handsome knight, brave and strong! You rescued Mama from the evil king!” She wrapped her tiny hands around his huge bicep as best she could. “You could slay a dragon if you wanted, Papa, I know you could!”

“I would slay one if it meant your safety, little one,” Sandor growled ferociously; his daughter only giggled and squeezed his arm once more.

“You would do that for me Papa?” She beamed up at him adoringly, causing the man to marvel at the similarity in expression between his wife and daughter.

Sandor gently traced her cheek with the back of his huge hand, nearly dwarfing his little girl’s small face. “For you, sweet, I would kill the Warrior himself. No dragon would stand a chance.”

Catya worried her lip and pouted. “But you would not kill Rhaegal though; he’s a good dragon and Uncle Jon loves him so.”

“Your Uncle Jon’s dragon likes to play with you; I’d not hurt the miserable fire breathing bast-,” Sandor caught himself as her eyes widened. “Miserable fire breathing beast.”

Catya’s whispered accusingly, “Papa, you almost said a naughty word.”

“Aye, I did, but you won’t be telling your mother on me now, will you, Catya babe?” Grinning, Sandor handed her a lemoncake for good measure.

“No Papa, I’ll not tell on you,” she stuffed the confection in her mouth, much in the same way Sansa devoured the treat. “You are my best beaux and I love you.”

“There’s a good lass,” Sandor lifted her into his arms and nuzzled the nape of her neck. “Come, child, let us go see Maester Tarly. He’ll have a salve that will heal that burn.”

“Oh, yes, Papa, and he always has sweets in his healing bag!”

“He does? I had forgotten,” Sandor’s gray eyes twinkled.

“Do you think my burn will be as bad as yours, Papa?” She held her hand up to his face as he carried her toward Samwell’s quarters.

Her innocent words brought a crushing pain to his chest. Once Sandor thought that being burned was the worst thing that ever happened to him, but now the man believed he would gladly burn a hundred times over to spare his little girl even the smallest wound. “No love, it will not be so bad as mine,” Sandor cleared his throat. “It will hurt some and you might be left with a small scar. You can tell people you take after your father. We both have gray eyes and scars, don’t we?”

She nodded as a small smile lit up her face. “We’re both kissed by fire, you and I,” he twisted one of her red curls around his finger. “And you are twice kissed by fire-that means you are doubly lucky.”

“Really?” Her deep gray eyes grew huge.

“Yes, love.” He tipped her chin up to him, his tone serious. “But you must promise Papa that you will never, ever, ever go near a hot stove again. Promise me, lass.”

“I promise,” Catya leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

“Swear it on the old gods.” He held out the hilt of his sword to her, knowing her love of chivalry rivaled her mother’s at the same age.

Solemnly she placed her hand on the pommel. “I swear on the old gods, Papa.”

“That’s my sweet babe,” Sandor pulled her close, kissed her and then carefully sat her in an overstuffed chair in the hallway. “Stay here for me now.”

“Yes, Papa,” Catya swung her legs back and forth, her tears forgotten.

“Afterward you can sleep with me and your Mama, alright?” Turning away from her, Sandor beat on Sam’s door with both fists, shouting, “Get out of bed you lazy hump before I break down this gods forsaken door! My daughter needs you!”


End file.
